How I learned to love small town life

Following an impromptu and unwanted tour of downtown Washington, D.C., I will sing the praises of small-town and suburban living forever.

In the District for a music gig, I thought I had it all planned out — arrive with time to spare, take it easy while unloading gear out of the trailer, then kick back and let the good times and good music roll.

Instead, when it was time to play, I found myself sweaty, mentally exhausted and worried that I’d return to find a parking ticket on my truck — or perhaps no truck at all, the vehicle towed away to some mysterious lot.

My unintended diversion started innocently enough when we arrived at 1315 K St. NW. A friendly assistant at the back door told me that I could leave the truck in the alley and take my chances with a ticket. Or I could drive a couple blocks away and find 100 percent legal parking nearby.

Wanting to avoid losing money on this venture, I decided to take my chances on finding the nearby parking. What a mistake.

During the next hour, I cursed every stroke of Pierre L’Enfant’s pen that etched the seemingly haphazard diagonal streets into being. After 15 minutes of thinking I could guess my way back to the hotel, I gave up and called one of my band mates.

“You’re on 14th Street?” he asked. “What’s the next intersection?” I strained my eyes, but against the glare of hundreds of headlights stacked up in rush hour traffic, I couldn’t catch the sign. I turned anyway and hoped for the best. Next thing I knew, I was driving through Logan Circle. Then I wound up on Rhode Island Avenue. Wrong way. After a few more turns, I wound up on New York Avenue.

Thanks to my limited travels through D.C., I immediately knew that I was way off the mark and on my way to Maryland if I didn’t turn around. I called my friend again. Behind my truck, the trailer squeaked and shimmied as I attempted to guide its 3,200 pounds of enclosed bulk through the clogged and confusing streets.

I glanced at a corner. The McPherson Square Metro station? No, I didn’t pass that on the way in. My mind was temporarily seized with the frightening thought of running out of gas with a trailer in the middle of D.C. on a Friday night. I shook myself back to reality and picked up my phone again.

“You’re on I Street?” my friend asked. “You need to get on 14th Street. Look for a Starbucks, then right after that, you’ll see the alley.” And there it was. It was the second time in a week that I had dealt with the D.C. area’s overwhelmed and non-intuitive road system. It was too much to handle.

I’ve been lost in Seattle, Denver, Philadelphia and New Orleans, but none of those experiences arouse the level of anxiety and dismay I felt while I was lost in Washington, D.C.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about my future. I had visions of maybe living in some loft apartment in a trendy neighborhood in some big city. Maybe even giving up my truck and getting a futuristic smart car, relying on public transit, and living like a real urbanite.

But after my experience last week, I’ve been delivered from that line of thinking. I won’t hold the traffic, insane drivers, crazed bicyclists and confusing street layout against you, D.C. I like your charm and character and I’ll be back — just not behind the wheel of a car if I can help it. Waiting at the red light at Main and Davis streets is enough traffic for me.